


Dios me hizo quererte

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: Kili hopes they can be like that when they grow up, he and Fili. Warriors, proud and fair and kissed by the sun, their hearts as brave as any.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for today's FiKiweek prompt: prologue ~~or~~ and aftermath.

Sometimes it feels like his whole being is made of memories, patch after patch sewn together in a colourful, fuzzy swirl. His childhood is the fuzziest of them all – Kili remembers it like a spinning pinwheel, days of scurrying through churches and libraries, bibles in hand and countless blessings on Thorin’s lips, curses thrown over their heads, the damp stains of holy water on the car seats.

He remembers the tall windows of a cathedral, the tiny shards of colored glass set perfectly in their frames, shaping figures and clouds and shining suns, white birds and joined hands and half-bald men like Dwalin – remembers asking Fili who they were, Fili’s smile as he said “they’re saints” and let Kili clutch his sleeve in the astounding, humbling silence of any empty, sun-filled sanctuary.

“What do saints do, Fee?” He remembers asking.

Most of all, he remembers the shades of gold and silver of Fili’s hair as he looked up, swathed in sunlight like a soft halo.

“They protect you.”

 

 

He tries to learn all about them when he’s a kid, stashes his mind full of curious data, all these little pieces of information that will probably never leave him.

He finds that not all saints spend their days looking up at the sky wistfully or tending to their modest garden. Some of them chitchat with God and bring him wine every other day. Some have swords. Some fight dragons, spiked backs and fire-blazing jaws, their armors shining with noble crests and dark blood. Some fight slithering shadows with bare hands and blind faith, clawing their way back to light at sunrise. Some even have wings, and walk with God’s flames at their feet.

Kili hopes they can be like that when they grow up, he and Fili. Warriors, proud and fair and kissed by the sun, their hearts as brave as any.

He draws angel wings on the back of Fili’s hand one afternoon, a tiny masterpiece in blue ink, like his brother’s eyes. He doesn’t know that their future lies in the shadows, too, and Fili doesn’t tell him.

 

 

It takes Kili a while to realize what this one does, really. After so many years they’re all identical – they all come down to _this_ , holy water and guns and cheap motels and the next creature trying to throttle them, so he stands his ground, knife in hand, the demon’s fingers twitching and clawing into his shirt, grazing for Kili’s chest.

He just doesn’t expect it to look him in the eye. Somehow he never sees that coming; Thorin’s glares and scowls when he messed up, his slumped shoulders and downcast gaze whenever Dis was mentioned, build this idea in Kili’s mind that you only look someone in the eye when you’re in the right.

_You think they’re in the wrong_ , Fili always reminds him, _but they don’t_.

But then the creature is _looking_ , his eyes piercing as if they were going straight for Kili’s soul, and he’s in Kili’s mind, rummaging, raking through every memory, and for a second Kili’s heart freezes.

 

At six his world is in uncle Thorin’s car, grease smeared on his fingertips and the dashboard from their latest pizza, the gentle lull of the radio kept low at night while Thorin drives.

At seven he rehearses the basics like kids do for their tests – silver bullets for werewolves, salt and fire for ghosts, don’t mess with witches, if it’s a vampire aim straight for the heart, watch out for doppelgangers ‘cause they’re total bitches. Fili chokes on his apple juice; Thorin laughs and agrees. He ruffles Kili’s hair, says Dwalin would approve too.

At ten he counts their kills to fall asleep at night, flank-to-flank with Fili on the backseat, a bag of Lay’s cradled in the circle of his crossed little legs, a couple of Batman comics sticking out of his schoolbag along with history and math and a pocket-sized Bible. He shuts his eyes against the streetlights, head leaning against Fili’s arm, and counts. One poltergeist, two demons, three trolls, four ghosts...

At eleven, he stands his ground with a loaded gun clutched in his hands, knees ready to buckle under him. Fili takes the shot for him.

At fourteen he’s gone through the charms of fifteen states and a thousand motels. It’s a lot less cool than they make it sound like in some novels. Kili’s not sure he likes it.

At sixteen he sleeps with Fili’s dagger under his pillow and Fili’s arm around his waist. Thorin is gone every other week.

At nineteen Fili is sun and stars and the sound of kisses shared in the dark, the quiver of lungs, the melting of breaths like glistening gold in a forge. Thorin doesn’t know. Kili keeps his eyes low, but his heart soars ever so high.

Twenty is their hands clasped together desperately, their dust-spitting engine, Kili’s fingerprints on their car’s hood, his breath staining the window, switching seats on long drives, silence wrapped around them. Thorin is gone. Something in Fili breaks. He is _distance_ and Kili is _fury_ and he is bottled-up yearning because fuck, he _cannot_ lose every single good thing he’s ever had in one go.

Twenty is for missing.

Twenty is for fucking up.

Twenty-one is for healing, slow and one little piece at a time. It’s for mistakes and birthday pies and forgiveness, for kisses and warm skin, for ridiculous coffee names and cheap beer, for lazy lovemaking and daydreams that make a road trip just a road trip, and hunting only for fairytales and evil queens’ henchmen.

Twenty-two is when the count goes up to a hundred, but it’s not kills this time - it’s kisses and touches and the nights they spend as one.

 

It’s only when Fili calls his name, a sharp sound dripping with anguish, that Kili can snap out of it.

He cuts it down in one move, his knife sharp and his hand ready, and the creature falls apart in a heap of dust.

“Fuck you. That was none of your business.”

 

 

At some point Kili realizes, reminiscing might just be his own coping mechanism. Like on their endless days of hunting, when time slows down and frustration rusts in his bones and screaming until his throat bleeds still sounds like the best option; or locked in the shower after a kill, when it feels like all the world’s filth is stuffed in his chest, beneath his very skin – he forces himself to breathe and dusts his oldest memories, letting them fill up each of his senses.

The warm scent of a diner’s apple pie, the crisp feeling of early mornings’ air on his bare cheeks, the sound of Thorin’s raspy ignition like a tipsy horse, the tangy aftertaste of blood in his mouth when other kids would corner him, Fili’s familiar silhouette stark against the car window every time his eyes blinked open, the world a fuzzy string behind him, and he a steady spot of colour shooting Kili a smile.

There’s this one memory he is very fond of, a somewhat ancient one.

 

 

She’s not the first ghost he sees. The sixth, the seventh maybe - Kili’s eight and _come on_ , ghosts are Hunting 101 - but she’s different. She _feels_ different. Her house doesn’t feel haunted, more like something you’d see in adverts - sunlight pooled on the floor, nice curtains hanging over open windows, and even over the layer of dust on every piece of furniture you can smell the vanilla-y scent of cookies and muffins from the bakery across the street.

Kili intrudes on her by accident, but she doesn’t get mad at him; she smiles and greets him, a peaceful soul with a fancy accent, and they sit together in her veranda. Their toes brush the twisting tendrils of jasmine beneath their feet, and as the breeze rises and dances around her fingers, Kili swears he can smell a hint of basil from the empty pots in the little garden.

She tells him about love, and loss, of memories to keep until they keep you alive and the ones to bury before they bury you. She tells him of the power of fresh mint and rosemary, of cinnamon and laurel, and she lets him play her favourite vinyl record – an old ballad Kili’s father would have liked, hick with melancholy, yet somehow drenched with passion too. It’s all curly sounds and garbled words that Kili can’t make out, and she laughs a silvery little laugh and teaches him a few - _corazón_ for heart, she says, and _siempre_ for always; _mi_ and _me_ only a little twist down the road, _razón_ as close to _reason_ as it gets. _Adoring_ sounds almost the same, Kili congratulates himself, his stomach full of butterflies as she croons her foreign words. _Adorarte para mi fue religión_ , she’d say, and instinct would call for Fili, paint pictures of his caring hands in Kili’s mind with soft pink and gold.

He can only visit her twice before Thorin declares that they’re out of here, but that’s enough for her to leave her imprint in Kili’s heart.

Some scents bring her back to him sometimes – herbs and spices, tingling like a pinch of pepper on the tip of his tongue, her sweet lilting voice a faded memory dancing in the back of his mind.

Sometimes, when the longing rises like a tide in his chest and he seeks relief in his brother’s arms, he can hear it echoing from that day long ago – _siempre fuiste_ _la razón de mi existir_ , it says, running as deep as blood inside of him, trickling off his fingers and into Fili’s skin. Fili’s heartbeat seems to pick up on the rhythm; the holiness of it mirrored in the sated stretch of his golden limbs. _Adorarte para mi fue religión._

 

 

Fear always holds fast onto his heart when something goes wrong. When they barely escape with their life. When Fili is almost gone forever and Kili thinks he’ll go crazy if it ever happens again.

He curls up against Fili’s side, their arms crossing and slipping around each other tightly, securely.

“ _Don’t you ever leave me_.”

If he closes his eyes it will feel like any day in any lover’s life, laptop washing the wall with blue lights, maps and pencils scattered on the table, two beds pushed together, their plans for the next trip laid out on the sheets. If he closes his eyes, the monsters in the closet will disappear and the two of them will be happy, doomed but happy. The average, everyday-like happiness everyone else gets, homes and potted plants and groceries and silly prints on pyjamas.

Fili smiles, eyelashes twined around his baby blues, eyes tired but twinkling.

“I never planned to.”

 

 

If there is a difference between his soft memories and the bits and pieces of data cramming his mind, it’s in the way they come to be in the first place. Memories are something you make just by living, by simply being there; information is something you seek and absorb with purpose.

Unsurprisingly, Fili is an extraordinary compendium of all that, a rare moment of truce in Kili’s forever-whirring mind. Kili lives and thrives on the new memories they make every day, delighting in the simple fact that they exist together, and he draws strength from them. And yet, at the same time, Kili studies Fili, learns him by heart, seeks new angles and shades and perspective on the gentle curve of his back, on the familiar texture of his skin, on the way his hair will curl on the nape of his neck, well-known and always new.

He’s the peace and balance in Kili’s mind and, all in all, the only thing truly worth remembering.

 

 

He kisses the bare span of Fili’s neck, nuzzling the tip of his nose into the furthest corner, roaming over freckled planes and the smooth bas-relief of a collarbone.

Fili is tendrils of sheer feeling against him, curling sweet and enticing around him - he is warmth and he is flesh and he is weight between Kili’s legs, he is the tingle of downy hair beneath Kili’s hands, hot breath laving Kili’s lips, happiness buzzing under Kili’s skin.

_What do they do, Fee?_

His palms spread down over Fili’s stomach to cup his ribs and Kili is a child again, arm stretched out to point at tall windows, sunlight fanned in the spaces between his fingers, warm and ticklish, painting his skin a soft red, edged with bright gold and white.

_They protect you._

He sighs his brother’s name, sinking into this back-arching, toe-curling pleasure, furled hot and tight inside of him.

That’s how it felt back then, reaching for the light-flooded ceiling. That’s how it feels now - his hands on Fili, warm like summer, burning like the sun, holier than heaven.

“Kili,” he says underneath him, kissing his mouth with breath and tongue and teeth and all of Kili is hot, hot, hot, set alight in his brother’s grasp.

“ _Fili-_ ”

They do say God is made of fire.

**Author's Note:**

> _Siempre fuiste la razón de mi existir_   
>  _Adorarte para mi fue religión_
> 
>  
> 
> roughly:  
>  _You were always the reason for my being_  
>  _Adoring you was my religion_
> 
> The lyrics are from _[Historia de un amor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIWxS6_98t8)_ ; there are many versions of this song, but the one I'm referring to in particular is performed by Guadalupe Pineda ft. Los Tres Ases.


End file.
